Death in a bottle
by John Steiner
Summary: Fanatics? Enthusaists? or Empathics? Harbingers?


Death in a bottle

"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."  
Friedrich Nietzsche

Shorin could hear them singing. Their voices echoed with a majestic ring off the stone cathedral walls, through the pane of glass, which created the sole church spire window. Shorin crouched on the tiny balcony, snow gently falling onto the black leather shoulders, his eyes fixed on his target below. Soon he would enact the supreme ultimatum. Shorin, proud defender of his nation, would execute the murderous fiends. In many years he had witnessed the vain attempts of criminals to destroy life and escape death; but they had failed. Year after year Shorin devised, planned, year after year slightly changing, gently prodding his masterwork into place. The cult below, a lethal collection of misguided bastards.

Their slow, synchronized chants enraged him further. Where they calling to some false god? Or where they trying to resurrect a member of their class from the dead, probably rightfully destroyed by the city guard. They all deserved to die. They all sickened him to the point where he found death to be the only option, and his justice tasted so sweet even before he spilt their blood onto their own desecrated floor. Shorin would enjoy incinerating their bodies in a crematorium of their own sacrilegious shrine. He would indulge himself in the screams and cries of agony from their burning fleshed throats.

The chanting stopped. It was time.

"May the lord have mercy on your eternal souls, for I have none."

Shorin broke the stained glass window with his elbow effortlessly, a skill gained from the training from being in the city guards. The glass did not even strike the ground before Shorin let loose three vials from his hand. These were filled with a volatile liquid he had procured from a rouge alchemist days before. The brawny old man refused to give it up to the local authorities when Shorin attempted to commandeer it. The alchemist simply could not understand the importance of the situation. Shorin instructed him to report to the City Guards immediately for obstruction of justice, and when the stupid old fool resisted, he lost his spine, throat, and Shorin's tools of destruction.

The rounded tubes fell quietly, almost peaceful, to the bloody floor below. Light glinted off their polished sides into his eyes; like tiny crystals gently falling to the earth, summoning hell when contacting the blood floor below. The flames engulfed three of the cultists; their white robes splattered in blood instantly combusting, searing their flesh and depriving their lungs of the air they needed. Shorin wondered if the first three would die of severe burns or of suffocation. It did not matter, he already attached the grappling hook to the ledge and began to repel down the spire, taking long, wide jumps of about fort hands at a time. The rope slid gracefully through his black glove, the other tightly gripping a tiny crossbow, a gift he procured from the mayor for twenty years of defending the city from crime. Maybe I'll get a commemoration for this, too. Shorin fantasized, taking aim at the first person widely running for the door. The woman did not perceive the bolt that perforated her rear cranium, nor did she feel the bolt exit through her forehead before she hit the floor, dead.

Shorin's feet landed heavily on the floor, the flames were dying now, proceeding their victims. Another two tried to run past him, but Shorin's skill with a blade matched his marksmanship. Swiftly and silently he drew his blade, and with one keen, graceful motion lacerated the first man's chest, sending blood onto Shroin's arms and chest, then slicing the throat of the second as he was in mid-step. Both bodies fell simultaneously, and Shorin smiled at his success.

A group of seven cultists huddled in a secluded corner, wincing and cowering as Shorin approached them. They cried out for mercy just as he thought they would, and he enjoyed it even more than he perceived. A rush entered his veins unlike any he had ever felt before. It was as if he was emersed into pools of love, revenge, ecstasy, and pleasure all at once. Words failed t describe his state of euphoria. The murderer drew out flasks one at a time, walked to a person in the group, and smashed it onto the ground directly in front of their sandaled feet. Three times he did this, until the contents and shattered glass were spread all over the group and the floor. He looked each of them in the eye, smiled, and turned away. They cried and thanked him for sparing their lives. Fools.

Shorin quickly pivoted and threw a single lit match onto the oil. Flames erupted at the eyes of his victims, their screams lasted only for seconds, and were replaced by the smell of burning flesh. He was done.

The cool night wind felt good on his sweaty face, and even as the elite guards ran to him he smiled.

"Surrender yourself to us immediately or we will kill you!" The men donned in blue armor screamed at him, their first rank with raised shields and their second with bows. Did they not understand that he had just liberated an evil that had long infected that beautiful city?

"My friends. The world is a better place now." Shorin re-assured them, standing up from his kneeling position.

"Lower your weapons and surrender immediately!"

They did not understand. The heat to his back, the dying screams of the cultists still echoing in his ears. It was beautiful, pleasureful. Did they not know of his success?

"You are officially charged with the murder of twelve holy priests, murderer. Lower your weapons and stand down, this is your last warning!"

Shorin's mind shattered. His body shook as if he had fell off of a colossal cliff. He had killed priests? Innocent civilians? The thought was absurd. Shorin replayed the memories over and over again in his minds eye. And each he did, the memories faded from his sick, twisted fantasy and painted themselves into a gruesome, awful reality. Murder. Slaughter of innocents.

"No… no… NO!"

Shorin ran toward his enlighteners, but he hadn't taken one step until he felt his chest filled with arrows. His breath quickly died, his heart slowed, and his terminal thoughts echoed through his mind.

"Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us."

The corpse of Shorin of Lightwood fell to the marble stoop. The corpse of an elite guard, a liberator, a psychopath, a murderer, a repentant.


End file.
